


Rendezvous

by eurydice72



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/pseuds/eurydice72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Giles retrieves the amulet from the collapsed Hellmouth, he encounters the last person he ever would have imagined - a young boy who looks remarkably like a now-dead vampire. Set immediately post-Chosen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rendezvous with Death

_Chapter 1: A Rendezvous with Death_

Nobody answered on the first knock.

Nobody answered on the second knock.

On the third, Giles was beginning to wonder if perhaps he’d have to undertake this outing on his own after all. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but unless someone decided to stir relatively quickly, he wasn’t going to have a choice. His time was limited.

He had just started turning away, giving up on having any aid in his journey, when the motel room door cracked open and Willow blinked sleepily up at him.

“Giles,” she murmured, her voice rough from sleep. Slowly, she tilted forward to allow her gaze to dart to either side of the Watcher, noting the empty balcony of the cheap motel. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, just…I need you to get dressed and come with me.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

He paused, wondering how much he should tell her now and how much could wait until…later. “I want to investigate the remains of the Hellmouth,” he finally confessed. “To ensure it’s actually closed.”

The mention of Sunnydale seemed to draw Willow from her drowsiness, and she stepped further out of the room, pulling the door mostly closed behind her so that her words wouldn’t filter inside. “Isn’t that a job better suited for daytime?” she asked. “When there’s light? And less probability of one of those Turok-Hans still being around to gobble us up?”

“I want to do it now. Before the site is disturbed. The media will be all over this, Willow. The only way to guarantee we’ll discover _anything_ is to do so now.” He sighed, suddenly weary. “Please. Your help would be invaluable.”

She searched his face, small teeth worrying her bottom lip. “Buffy---.”

“---is not to be disturbed,” Giles interrupted. “And before you say anything, neither will Xander. They both lost people they…valued today. I’m not going to subject either of them to any more grief if it’s not necessary.”

She only nodded. Just as he had, she’d witnessed the reactions of her friends as they’d driven away from the devastation. One, withdrawn and silent. The other, cracking inappropriate jokes that wouldn’t have been funny even if everyone wasn’t hurt and exhausted. Going back would only exacerbate the wounds.

“What about Kennedy?” she asked quietly. “Having someone with Slayer-strength could come in handy since we don’t know what exactly we’ll find.”

He already knew what he wanted to find, but Giles held his tongue, saying instead, “Only if you can promise me her discretion. And that she’s physically up to this after today’s events.”

Once he had the pledge, Giles gave her instruction on where and when to meet. It was only when the door closed shut again behind Willow that he realized his heart was pounding inside the walls of his chest, a completely different rush than the one that had fuelled him so eloquently throughout the battle in the high school.

Then, he had been acting in desperate ardor, determined to push himself as far as necessary in order to beat back the First’s army.

Now…well, now there was no time to consider why his body was wound so tightly. Now, there was only time to return to the Hellmouth.

*************

The dark shadow of Kennedy appeared before them as Giles and Willow hovered at the mouth of the crater that had once been Sunnydale.

“It’s clear,” she announced. She almost sounded disappointed. “No vamps.”

“Right.” The sharp arc of his flashlight did little but show the dirt a few feet ahead of him, but Giles took a tentative step forward anyway, eyes glued to the ground as he began the descent. Sunrise was less than two hours away. If he didn’t find it relatively quickly, he would have to give up hope of finding it at all, an option he hadn’t actually considered ever since learning about Spike’s demise. Such an artifact as the amulet should not be left to be discovered by miscreants; without understanding its true power, leaving it to fall into the hands of those with less than pure motives was tantamount to negligence. He couldn’t afford such an omission with the Council currently decimated.

“You’re going to tell me what we’re looking for, right?”

Willow’s voice behind him reminded Giles he wasn’t alone in this search, her beam of light crisscrossing with his own on the earth before him almost reassuring. “None of this must get back to Buffy,” he prefaced. “She’s been through quite enough already.”

“OK,” came the response, “but never mind answering my question. That just did.” There was a pause where the only sounds were the soft shuffles of their feet. “Is there a reason we’re doing this the hard way, though? I would’ve thought you got a good enough workout today with the fight and all.”

Her words stopped him in his tracks, swiveling to look at her. “What do you mean?”

Now illuminated in the path of his flashlight, Willow held up a hand to protect her eyes as she spoke. “Because if all you want is the amulet, I can find that lickety split. We could’ve just stayed in the car and I wouldn’t currently have sand in my shoes making my toes itch.”

“How is that possible?”

“I was tired. I forgot socks.”

“No. I meant, how would you find it?”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I can feel it. The magic in it, I mean. I felt it when it started working during the fight, and now that we’re back here…” Slowly, her head turned away, shadowing as she gazed off into the darkness to her left, and Giles felt the faint stirrings of power emanating from her slight form.

“If it’s a dangerous spell---.”

“It’s not. It’s more like…” Her hand disappeared as she extended it into the darkness, as if Willow was plucking something from the very air. “…magic coalescing,” she finished, pulling back her arm and turning to smile at him once again.

In her palm, she cradled the amulet, dirt dulling its shine, the heavy chain dangling between her fingers. Giles had seen it earlier, of course, but only from a distance, once Spike had started wearing it. Listening to Buffy’s explanations about it coming from Angel made him itch to examine it more minutely; however, Giles’ recent discord with both Buffy and Spike made that impossible. He had to settle for stealing scrutinizing glances in the vampire’s direction whenever he thought he wasn’t being observed.

Spike was gone now, though. Giles had all the time in the world to try and ferret out all the amulet’s secrets.

“You say there’s still magic in it?” he queried as he took the heavy charm from her. He shone his flashlight directly at it, noting the way the stone’s flecks seemed to vibrate, and felt an odd pulling at the periphery of his vision.

“Not a lot,” Willow said. “I think most of its power got used up destroying the Hellmouth. But yeah, there’s some. Kind of like…an echo, if that makes any sense.”

It didn’t, but standing in a darkened crater after a grueling day and an exhausting night left Giles less than at his sharpest. “We should return to the hotel,” he said, turning back toward the bus as he slipped the amulet into his pocket.

They trudged in silence for several minutes, their breath labored as they climbed back up the side onto the desert plain. A grim Kennedy waited, and the moment she saw Willow, she stepped forward and slid her arm around the witch’s waist, taking her weight when the weary girl leaned against her.

“I was beginning to think rescue mission,” she commented as they walked back to the bus.

“No, no, the rescue’s already been completed,” Giles replied. His pocket weighed against his thigh. What exactly he’d rescued, however, he had yet to determine.

*************

Sleep was elusive.

As the pink dawn began to creep around the edges of the ratty curtains, Giles pushed back the blanket and sat up, his blurry gaze fixed on the amulet he’d left on the nightstand. The others would be asleep for hours yet; exhaustion and peace of mind were two of the most powerful sedatives in their world. He should be able to make his examinations without fear of interruption and without fear of Buffy discovering that he’d retrieved it.

Frighteningly enough, the latter was his primary concern.

The fact that Willow could still sense magic surrounding the amulet worried him. Putting on his spectacles as he picked up the necklace, Giles frowned as he turned it over, fascinated by its unexpected simplicity. He felt nothing, but that didn’t preclude residual power from being housed within it. Its weight when he let the charm fall from his fingers made it swing in slow circles, and he flashed on how Spike must’ve felt with it pressing against his chest. Too heavy to forget. Too cumbersome to disregard. Had he suspected what it would do to its wearer? Giles mused.

Doubtful. Even with a soul, Spike remained the sort to live in the moment. Most likely, he would not have given any serious consideration to the repercussions of his involvement in the final battle, other than to wonder what ground it might gain him with Buffy.

He felt it when he coiled the chain back up around his fingers.

There.

On the back.

A slightly raised section at the edge of the jewel.

His frown deepened. Turning on the wall light for extra illumination, Giles peered more closely at the amulet, seeing for the first time the symbol his touch had found. Part of it was obliterated by scorch marks, but what he could make out looked remarkably like an omega.

The end.

Quickly, he scanned for more, but the dust and damage from the Hellmouth hid anything else the amulet might have to offer. Only a crack that ran along the setting was readily obvious.

His thumb skimmed the edges of the fault, assessing the damage that must’ve occurred during the destruction of the Hellmouth. Something snagged, and Giles felt a sharp prick in the fleshy pad, pulling it away just enough to see a drop of blood already welling from the injury.

Damn it, he thought irritably. I should’ve expected that Spike would have a way of getting back at me from beyond the grave.

Before he could clean it off, however, the drop of scarlet fell, staining the jewel and mingling with the dust that still clung to it. The flecks that had seemed to vibrate when he was in the crater now leapt out at Giles, striking in their clarity, and the entire necklace pulsed within his grip.

For a split second, he could see into the jewel’s heart. And it was…not what he expected.

But it lasted only for a moment.

Because then…his world went dark.


	2. Blue Days and Fair

_Chapter 2: Blue Days and Fair_

Something was scratching his cheek.

Something was flapping lightly against his shoulder.

And he was surprisingly cool. _Has someone turned on the air conditioning?_

Giles’ eyes fluttered open, and then automatically squinted as pale sunlight took him by surprise. Wait. _Sunlight?_ It wasn’t the only unexpected item to greet him, though. With his senses more alert, the scratching along his face felt and smelled remarkably like grass.

The touch on his shoulder disappeared, and a shadow passed in front of the sun. “Sir?” A child’s voice, but looking up into the sky, Giles couldn’t see anything more than a dark outline. “Sir?” it came again. “Are you unwell? Should I call for aid?”

Blinking to try and clear his vision, Giles pressed his palms into the cool ground and lifted his upper body, struggling to a sitting position. Why was he so dizzy? Had he fallen? And what in blazes was he doing outside when he’d just been in his hotel room?

“I’m fine,” he managed to say, which was true, for the most part. Physically, outside of the vertigo, he felt normal. It was only his mind that was whirling in confusion.

The child hovered at his side, and gradually, Giles’ vision returned to normal, allowing him to take in his visitor’s appearance. A young boy, aged around nine or ten, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, his collar stiff. In spite of the clothing, however, sandy-colored curls tumbled in disarray around his forehead and a purplish bruise shadowed beneath his left eye. Something familiar about the boy niggled at the edges of Giles’ awareness, but he quickly dismissed it as he returned his attention to trying to right himself.

“Where am I?” Giles asked. “Where’s Buffy?”

The child frowned. “You’re in the park. Is Buffy your dog? Has he run off? Is that what happened?”

“No, Buffy’s my…” His voice faded. There was something distinctly not right about this. As he looked about what was unmistakably the park to which the child referred, more déjà vu prickled his senses, a feeling of coming home that shouldn’t be possible in Southern California.

Trees that weren’t indigenous to the area.

The absence of artificially created noise. In fact, all he could hear was the soft murmur of human voices and the occasional animal. If he strained, Giles thought he even heard something that sounded like cobblestone, but that wasn’t possible. Not in this time and place.

Unless he wasn’t _in_ his normal time and place. It would certainly explain his companion’s accent and dress.

Warily, Giles returned his gaze to the boy. “My name’s Rupert,” he said. “What’s yours?”

The child pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t all that much considering his slight build. “William Huxley, sir.”

“Did you see what happened to me?”

“No, sir.”

“But…you were trying to wake me, is that correct?”

William flushed, and he stiffened. “I…I…” He swallowed, his lashes lowering in deference. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean---.”

“Relax, William. I’m not angry with you. I’m merely curious as to what might have happened to me.”

The gentle tone in Giles’ voice eased some of the tension from William’s shoulders, but the boy still refused to meet the Watcher’s eyes. “I do not know,” he said softly. “I was running, and I…I found you.”

He thought back. What was the last thing he remembered doing?

Giles remembered the battle with the First, the subsequent flight. He remembered the incessant need to retrieve the amulet Buffy and the other slayers claimed had destroyed the Hellmouth, and his journey with Willow in order to do so. And he remembered not being able to sleep for overwhelming curiosity about the artifact burgeoning within his awareness.

Looking it over for hints of the magic it might contain.

Pricking his thumb.

And seeing…

His lungs tightened. Lifting his head back to regard the boy, Giles searched him more carefully, noting the expensive cut of his suit, the shine on his shoes that had only been partially dulled by dirt. “Look at me,” he said, but the moment William did so, Giles wished he hadn’t. Because there was no mistaking it now that he knew what to look for.

When he’d looked into the heart of the jewel for that split second before passing out, Giles could’ve sworn he’d seen Spike’s soul.

This was Spike. Or William, rather. Before he’d been turned.

Something curious about the child’s previous assertion made Giles frown. “You were…running?” he asked. His eyes flickered pointedly over William’s attire before fixing on the bruise on his face. “Might I ask what from?”

If it was possible, he paled even more. “Please don’t tell,” he whispered. “I promise it won’t happen again. But please, I beg of you…don’t tell my father. He never understands.”

Unspoken fear was making William tremble, and Giles felt an irrational impulse to give the boy a hug to reassure him everything would be all right. He held back, though, and instead offered a small smile. “Since I don’t believe I know your father,” he said, “that’s a simple wish to grant. But, it still doesn’t tell me what is wrong with you, William.”

“But are you not more concerned about what is wrong with _you_ , sir?”

It was difficult not to grin at the acuity in young William’s question. “Of course,” Giles said. “However, I’m rather accustomed to the…unexpected appearing in my life. I’m sure I will sort this out before too long. One way or another.”

“Perhaps your Buffy has the answer.”

“Perhaps. She’s rather resourceful.”

“Should we find her? If you need aid, surely my mother could help you. She knows all the ladies in the area.”

The offer was made in sincere earnestness, blue eyes bright. Giles doubted there was anything William’s family would be able to contribute in deciphering what exactly had happened to him, but his curiosity about the home life of one of the most notorious vampires in history was growing with every passing second. If this was a fiction created by Giles’ own subconscious, it was certainly an entertaining one. Never would he have envisioned William the Bloody in such affluent circumstances, though the black eye was certainly expected. A scrapper from the start, it would seem. Probably brassed off the wrong child.

“That would be most appreciated,” Giles said with a smile. Rising to his feet, he dusted some of the debris from his clothes---noticing for the first time the casual tweed of his old-fashioned trousers and jacket---and adjusted his collar. “Lead the way, William.”

*************

For a dream, it was unbelievably realistic. It was London, untarnished by modern trappings, complete with the olfactory evidence of sewage undercoating the air. William walked stiffly at his side, and whenever a passer-by cast a glance toward the boy, Giles noticed that he always turned his head just enough to hide the bruising on his face, speaking only when spoken to first. Thankfully for the child, that was only twice, and both times by women old enough to be his grandmother. Good breeding seemed to win over shame, even in spite of his discomfort. It was intriguing to consider.

The home at which they turned in was further proof to William’s prosperity. A gardener knelt at a row of rosebushes in the expertly pruned front garden, but William gave him no notice, walking briskly for the front door before he could be noticed. Giles followed him inside, and then abruptly stopped, his eyes widening in spite of what he’d been expecting.

He’d seen other homes like it, of course. His own grandmother’s had been held to such high standards, with every knickknack carefully placed and shined, every corner spotless. But where he’d thought of his grandmother’s as antiquated, this seemed fresh. Alive. It was a curious correlation to make with anything remotely Spike.

A door off the foyer opened before either could speak, and a woman appeared in the opening. She was in her late twenties, with dark blonde hair pulled loosely up and off her face, but it was the gentility in her eyes that caught Giles’ attention. They were the same shade as William’s---Spike’s---but the kindness that warmed them was not something he could remember ever seeing in the vampire’s.

“William, you’re quite tardy,” she started to say, and then froze when she saw Giles hovering behind the young man. “Is there a problem?” Her gaze flickered back to her son, noticing for the first time the black eye and rushing forward to scoop his face between her hands. “What happened?” she asked, tilting his head back to better examine the injury.

“I fell,” William said quickly.

Her lips thinned. “That shall be the tale you tell your father,” Mrs. Huxley said, “but I would prefer you not to lie to me, young man. Now. What happened to you?”

His voice was a whisper. “Oliver Hill.”

It was a name that carried with it more meaning than Giles could decipher, but there was no mistaking the pain that flashed in Mrs. Huxley’s eyes. “Did he destroy your books this time?”

A hesitant nod.

She sighed, and leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead. “I’d thought my discussion with his mother the last time this happened would suffice,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry it didn’t, my William.” Her gaze lifted again to meet Giles’. “Did you save my son from that ruffian?”

“No, rather…he saved me.”

Her eyebrow quirked. “From young Oliver?”

Between the familiar gesture and the almost disdainful tone of her voice, Giles had to force himself past the ghost of Spike that had suddenly loomed between them in order to reply. “No, I had an accident of my own, I’m afraid.” He bowed, as he remembered his grandmother teaching him to do. “Rupert Giles, ma’am.”

“Mr. Giles has lost his Buffy,” William volunteered. He seemed eager to change the subject away from his own adventures. “I found him in the park. I think he might’ve been attacked.”

“Was your purse stolen, Mr. Giles?” she asked.

He patted his pockets and wasn’t surprised when it came up empty. “It would appear so.”

“And this…Buffy. Is this your…wife?”

Time to lie. “My daughter. It’s a pet name. We were…out for a stroll.”

William’s eyes widened. “But I didn’t see anyone else about. You don’t think the criminal who attacked you…” He blanched as the possibility seemed to play out in his mind, and then pulled himself straighter. “Something must be done. A young lady---.”

“Buffy’s fine,” Giles interceded. “She mostly likely…ran for help. I’m sure she’s probably at home even as we speak.” _Or her hotel room._

“Still,” Mrs. Huxley said, graciousness returned. “Measures should be taken.” She reached for a cord that hung near the doorway and from deep in the bowels of the house, a bell tinkled. “We’ll have a cup of tea and wait for the constable to arrive. If you’ve been attacked, sir, it would hardly do for you to travel home without first taking some refreshment.”

Turning, she disappeared back into the room from which she’d come, William on her heels. The temptation to leave the abode and search out the answers of his presence lurked in the back of Giles’ consciousness, but he disregarded it to follow his hostess. Somehow, he had a suspicion that seeing Spike’s soul in the amulet and this construct of Spike’s human life that his mind had conjured were connected. He would never discover the truth of what had happened if he chose to run from the only evidence he was being offered.

Besides, young William sparked more than curiosity for the Watcher. Contrary to Giles’ first supposition, William was not the attacker in whatever fracas he’d been fleeing. He’d been the victim, and as was evident from his mother’s apology, it was not the first time it had happened. It was hardly an auspicious beginning for a budding blackguard, and the sympathy it was rousing for the child was unsettling.

He didn’t want to like William. It would make the issue of Spike’s sacrifice even more confusing.

He would just have to wait and see what would transpire.


	3. Lead Me into His Dark Land

_Chapter 3: Lead Me into His Dark Land_

The tea was marvelously refreshing, as only properly brewed, quality British tea could be, and Giles sipped it in studied luxury, ever watchful of his hosts’ demeanors. Anne Huxley sat on the plush divan opposite him, back as straight as a genteel woman of the time should be, while William took his place in a chair tucked near the window. Upon their withdrawal to the front room, he had assumed his role within the household, speaking only when spoken to, bowing to his mother’s command. Yet, every time it appeared that Mrs. Huxley would be in need of something, William was there, the something in hand before she could even request it, a smile of such devotion accompanying every gesture that Giles was soon quite jealous of the attention his hostess was getting. No one had ever doted on the Watcher like this child so obviously doted on his mother; he could only wonder what had promoted such a state.

“You’re blessed, Mr. Giles,” she said as she sipped her tea. “I’ve heard tales of others who didn’t survive such attacks. Fortune must favor you.”

“Yes,” he murmured. His eyes flickered to William. “Your son doesn’t seem quite so favored, though. I take it, this wasn’t the first time this has happened to him?”

She shook her head. “My son has the propensity for running into trouble, usually because he’s more absorbed in his books than his path. I fear it will be his downfall some day.”

“But…his father. Why would you keep such encounters from him? Surely, if he were to intercede---.”

“My husband does not understand William’s gentle spirit, nor does he approve of his interest in his poetry. He would not be sympathetic to William’s circumstance.”

It was the first reference he’d heard to the poetry, and Giles shifted to address William directly. “You write?” he asked the boy. “Or do you just like to read poetry?”

He looked to his mother before replying. “Both,” William said. “Though I’m not very good---.”

“You _are_ ,” Anne interrupted. Her earnestness was charmingly infectious, and Giles felt his heart go out to her. This was obviously an argument the pair had had more than once. “Your verse is lovely, William. If it’s less than perfect for you, that’s because you’re only beginning. You mustn’t fault yourself because of your inexperience. Do you understand?”

A small smile. A short nod. “Yes, Mother.”

The soft thud of a door whisking shut captured everyone’s attention, and Giles frowned when he saw William pull himself up, straightening his jacket and licking his lips nervously as he stared at the closed drawing room door. Anne rose to her feet, distraction in her every movement.

“Excuse me, Mr. Giles,” she said. “I believe my husband has arrived. William, please see to Mr. Giles’ needs until I return.”

They watched as she exited the room, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. The murmur of a conversation from the outer hall could be heard, but the specifics were unintelligible, and it wasn’t until the voices had faded away that William audibly exhaled.

“Where has he been?” Giles asked. As much as he disliked the notion of feeling sympathy for a youthful Spike, he detested the notion of a father instilling such fear in his family even more. “Your mother seemed surprised that he was here.”

“She’s _always_ surprised when he comes home.” Too late, he realized that he’d likely said too much, his eyes widening at the thought of potential retribution. “He has responsibilities,” William hastened to add. The recitation appeared to be a common one. “They require him to travel. He’s a very important man.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“He _is_. He knows the Queen.”

“I believe you.”

“Do _you_ know the Queen?”

Giles smiled. “No, William, I can honestly say I’ve never even _seen_ the Queen.”

“So, my father must be more important than you.”

The faulty logic erased Giles’ humor. “A man’s worth is more than the sum of his acquaintances,” he said. “What he does is far more telling---.”

He stopped. Those intelligent eyes were riveted on him, waiting for Giles to complete his declaration, but in that moment, the Watcher wasn’t in the Victorian drawing room of the Huxley family. He was standing on the edge of the Sunnydale crater, listening to Buffy tell what had happened to Spike at the verge of the Hellmouth.

“Yes?” William prompted.

Giles dropped his gaze to sip slowly at his tea. “How long has your father been gone?” he asked. It was better to change the subject. Any further discussion on the other, and he would find himself in deeper waters than he’d be able to navigate.

“Four days.”

“Do you know where?”

William shrugged. “Most often he stays around London. But he does go to the continent quite a bit. He brought me back a sword once.”

“A…sword?”

“For fencing. Father teaches me when he isn’t away.”

Setting down his cup, Giles regarded the child with confusion. “Your father teaches you to fight, yet you believe he wouldn’t understand about your scrape with…what was his name?”

“Oliver Hill.” He whispered it again. Almost as if he was afraid that uttering it any louder would give it more power than it already held.

“With this Oliver,” Giles finished. “Why is that?”

William’s eyes darted to the closed door, assessing the odds of it opening unexpectedly before he replied. “It’s not the fighting Father disagrees with,” he said finally. “It’s the wherefore that prompts it that he dislikes.”

“Your poetry.”

“My _books_.” He was quick on the clarification, and the sudden blaze in his eyes attested to his vehemence on the matter, even if the child was too frightened to address it more directly with his father. “He says they’re meaningless. That I don’t need them because of our station.”

“Books are an important learning tool,” Giles said. “If they’re important to you, you shouldn’t abandon them. Doesn’t your father believe in the quality of your education?”

“He thinks stories and poetry aren’t worthy to be studied. He thinks they’ll make me weak.”

“That’s a rather narrow opinion, don’t you think? After all, knowledge is power.”

“Sir Francis Bacon.”

“Pardon?”

“Knowledge is power. That was Sir Francis Bacon.” William stopped, his head tilting as his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Am I wrong?”

Giles had to wrack his brains for a long moment to remember the proper attribution for the quote and finally shook his head. “No,” he said in amazement. “I just…didn’t expect you to know such a detail.” Setting down his teacup, he leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees as he addressed him further. “What does your father do when he finds out?”

The boy’s mouth opened to speak, but then closed again, his head slowly shaking in denial. “I mustn’t,” William said. “Father just wants what’s best for me. He---.”

The rest was strangled in his throat when the drawing room door flew open, and a man nearer to Giles’ age than Anne’s came striding in. Immediately, Giles stood, but it was more out of shock than any sense of propriety. While William had inherited his mother’s eyes, many of his other features---the hawkish nose, the sharp bone structure---clearly came from his father. They were built nearly the same as well, average height, average build, but where William’s diffidence made him seem smaller than he actually was, the senior Huxley male wore his self-confidence in such a way as to make himself appear larger. This man looked more like Spike than the child did. Only the flashing black eyes set them apart.

“You must be Mr. Giles.” He never even looked at the boy who’d leapt to his feet. “George Huxley. I hear you’ve had a bit of adventure today.”

“A bit,” Giles agreed. He stole a glance sideways, catching William alert and hanging on every word to come out of his father’s mouth. “Your son has been quite helpful.”

“My wife informs me that the constable has already been called. Do you require any other assistance? I hesitate to say, but my wife is not always thorough. A lovely creature, but overwhelmingly female in certain regards, I’m afraid.” He seemed oblivious to the frowns from both Giles and William as he strode to the sideboard. “I must admit,” Mr. Huxley said, pouring out a finger of whiskey, “I’m not familiar with any Giles families in the vicinity. Where is it exactly you’re from, sir?”

“Bath.” _True enough_. “I’m just visiting the city.” _Even more true._

“But I thought you said your daughter went home.”

The worry in William’s voice was what caught Giles’ attention, but when Mr. Huxley’s head whipped around to glare at his son, it was all too clear that it was the fact that the boy had spoken at all that bothered him.

“Your presence is not required here, William,” he said coldly.

“But Mother---.”

“Your mother is not here. _I_ am. Considering what she told me happened this morning, I would not be so argumentative if I were you.”

Giles stepped forward. “The boy can stay. He’s doing no harm.”

Cold eyes swiveled to meet his, and for a moment, Giles wondered if the elder Huxley would resort to violence at having his orders countered so publicly. There was another visual sweep, this one more discerning and particular, and when their gazes met again, Mr. Huxley smiled.

It made Giles shiver.

“You’re a scholar, aren’t you?” he asked the Watcher casually.

The observation from seemingly nowhere was baffling. “Actually, I would qualify myself as a teacher of sorts,” Giles replied.

But Huxley was already bored with the topic, turning back to the sideboard to pick up his drink. “Only men of letters seem to find any worth in William. I would imagine they see him as a kindred spirit.”

“He’s an intelligent boy---.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“Your treatment of him---.”

“---is my prerogative as his father.” Huxley drained the rest of his whiskey and replaced the tumbler. Without another glance at either of them, he headed back to the door, saying, “Since he seems to prefer your company, William, keep Mr. Giles entertained until the constable arrives. At least I can be certain you will not be _falling_ any more as a result.”

Giles was left speechless when the doors shut loudly behind Mr. Huxley. It had been years since he’d been treated in such callous regard, truly not since before he’d joined the Watcher’s Council. In many ways, it was the same conduct _his_ father had displayed, though in regards to other circumstances and not education, and was largely instrumental for Rupert’s revolt upon entering uni. Now, it served to make him see red, and he had to sit down before his baser instincts took hold and drove him to charge after the man.

“Thank you.”

It was almost a whisper, and Giles turned to see William watching him with solemn eyes. “For what?” he asked.

“For…” But he couldn’t voice the subject of that _for_. He struggled finding the words and eventually just said, “For not telling.”

In spite of his agitation, Giles smiled softly in the face of the boy’s sincerity. “It was my pleasure, William.”


	4. Take My Hand

_Chapter 4: Take My Hand_

The absence of his father seemed to lessen the load upon young William’s shoulders and he moved from the chair by the window to the couch opposite Giles. “You’re a teacher?” he asked, perching himself on the edge. It was more than apparent that his interest was piqued. “What do you teach?”

Giles sat back down, relaxing into the stiff cushions. This would likely be the oddest conversation he might ever have, especially since he would have to color his answers in variations of the truth. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the open-faced countenance of the young man facing him. It just seemed…wrong.

“History, primarily,” he finally answered. “Some…sciences.”

“Oh.” He seemed slightly disappointed by the answer. “I thought…” And his voice trailed off, an auditory shrug contained within his tone. “It’s just you knew about Bacon. I assumed you might be a literature scholar.”

“I know my fair share. I read a lot in my profession.” His own curiosity was growing. How had Spike come from _this_? He understood that the demon took over, that the human was merely a blueprint upon which the vampire maintained some semblance of a personality, but this seemed so far removed from the creature that had first terrorized Sunnydale, and then insinuated its existence into the lives of Buffy and the rest, that Giles was left wondering what could possibly have occurred that would shift the demeanor of eager, intelligent young William into the caustic, thrill-hungry Spike.

“You mentioned poetry,” he commented, eyes cautiously appraising the young man. “Is that your preference? Or do you just like to read?”

“Both,” William replied. “I think words can be beautiful when put together properly. And writing them…” His cheeks pinked. “I’m not…very good at…expressing myself. When I talk, I mean. I know what I want to say, but it doesn’t always come out the way I intend. Writers don’t have to worry about that.”

“You seem perfectly capable of expressing yourself to me.”

But he just shook his head. “You’re not everyone else,” he argued. “Most of the time…what I want to say comes out wrong, and I end up being taunted for it. I just want people to understand me. Writing it down makes that more likely to happen.”

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” Giles murmured, thoughtfully.

William immediately brightened. “I know that one!” he exclaimed. “That was…” His face screwed up into deep concentration, the lines suddenly deep between his brows. “I _know_ this,” he muttered. “It was…about the French cardinal, I think.”

The silence returned while the boy strained to remember. Giles’ fascination swelled as he watched, torn between giving William the answer and wanting to know if he’d fathom it for himself. Perhaps he’d misgauged his age; surely such sophisticated reading was beyond the capabilities of a nine-year-old. And yet, how could it be possible for Spike to have been versed in such intellectual property in the first place? He was one of the most visceral beings Giles had ever met, and while he certainly wasn’t stupid, neither was he the sort to be comfortable spouting the rhetoric of long-dead statesmen.

Finally, the urge to help became too strong. “Richelieu,” he prompted carefully.

The nudge was as effective as a shove. “Lytton!” William said. The recognition made him glow with satisfaction, like a dog that had just performed a trick for its master and was waiting for its reward.

“You’ve… _read_ Lytton?”

Perhaps it was the disbelief in Giles’ tone that made William visibly shrink. “I…I…it’s not…” he stammered. All joy was gone, replaced by the fearful child who cowered before the disapproving father. “It’s just a book,” he eventually managed.

“How old are you, William?”

“Eleven.”

So he _had_ been wrong about the age. Still…“You don’t actually understand Lytton, do you?” Giles asked.

Apparently, it was one thing to be suspected of reading contentious material, and something else entirely to be thought too stupid to comprehend it.

“I read it when I was nine and a half,” William announced. His chin jutted out in defiance, and the all-too familiar flash in those blue depths made Giles’ blood chill. “I’ve read Thackeray, and Blake, and Coleridge. I’ve even read Thomas Carlyle.”

“And why would a boy your age be reading such mature material? You’re young. You have plenty of time in your life to get bogged down in such boring discourses.”

“Because they’re all I have.”

Though it was the emotion of the moment that had compelled him to answer so honestly, William blanched as soon as the words escaped his mouth. He would’ve bolted from the room if his father’s orders hadn’t specifically mandated he stay and entertain Giles. It didn’t matter, though. He’d said enough for Giles to answer the remainder of his questions.

“Books are safe, aren’t they?” Gone was the mild accusation in his voice. Even if he knew the truth about what the child would become, Giles just couldn’t treat him in the same punitive manner that he obviously received from more than just his father. More importantly, he understood the boy. He’d _been_ the boy, at one point. Of course, then he’d met Ethan Rayne and his world had been turned upside-down, but at one point in future history, Rupert Giles would be in the exact same position as young William Huxley was now. Or then. The logistics about what exactly he was experiencing were lost to the Watcher.

William didn’t respond. He just watched him, his face pinched, eyes too large for the shape angles of his face, waiting for the other shoe to proverbially drop.

“What about Dickens?” A shift in subject was necessary; this would likely be safer. “Have you read him?”

He nodded. “I like _Oliver Twist_.”

Hardly a surprise, Giles thought in amusement. “Anybody else?”

“Scott. _Ivanhoe_ ’s one of my favorites.”

“You like adventures?”

“I like feeling like I’m part of the story. Scott’s very passionate, isn’t he?”

“Quite. What about poetry? Who’s your favorite poet?”

For some reason, the question made him blush, and William’s eyes darted to the closed door.

Giles watched the furtive glance and said, “You can tell me. I’ve already given you my word not to divulge anything to your father.”

“It’s not…” William’s blush deepened, and he leaned forward to whisper. “Mother wouldn’t approve, I don’t think. She doesn’t know I read him.”

Matching the tilt of the young man’s body, Giles couldn’t help but smile as he asked, “And who would that be?”

Another glance. A small bite of a lower lip. And then… “Lord Byron.”

The answer surprised him, and the statement was out of his mouth before he could remember the time period he was currently in. “But Byron is considered a classic.”

William’s eyes gleamed, in spite of the hush of his voice. “Mother says he’s scandalous. One day, Mrs. Beechwood found a copy of _Don Juan_ in her son’s books and Mother said that she would’ve burned it if it had been her. If she knew I read him…but you won’t tell, will you?”

“Your secret is safe with me.” He paused, a questioning niggle at the back of his brain. “I’m curious, though. If your mother disapproves of Byron, how did you ever manage to obtain a copy?”

William sat back into his seat, and when his aspect gained a sly mask, Giles was struck yet again at how much older it made him seem. “There’s a shop on Charing Cross. Mother lets me spend time there when she needs to run errands. Mr. Martin lets me read whatever I like. If Mother doesn’t know, it can’t upset her, but really, I think if she were to actually _read_ any of Byron’s work, she wouldn’t be nearly as fussed. His verse is very evocative.”

“Is that who you aspire to? Do you wish to be a writer someday?”

Some of his good mood faded. “What I wish and what I actually will do are two entirely separate things, Mr. Giles. Father’s made it very clear that I won’t be allowed to pursue my writing as a career.”

He only nodded. There was little he could say that would contraindicate the tenets to which the Huxley family adhered. It was just a shame that someone with so much obvious passion for an avocation would be thwarted by something as simple as an assumed position in life. Perhaps he would find some way to overcome that.

Of course, the irony that Buffy had undergone the same struggle wasn’t lost on Giles. She’d been told she was the Slayer, and fought to try and maintain some semblance of her own individuality while still fulfilling her slaying duties. Even to this final battle at the Hellmouth, she did what _she_ thought best, and incorporated the rest as well as she could manage.

So lost in thought, Giles almost missed William’s next comment.

“It’s a shame you live in Bath,” he said, his blue eyes shy. “Does your daughter like to read, too?”

The sudden image of Buffy with her nose buried in a musty book made Giles chuckle. “Not particularly,” he said. “She prefers more active pastimes.”

“Oh. I’m certain she’s still lovely, though. Is she my age?”

“Older.” _For now_.

William’s mouth opened to voice another question when the doorknob turned, and Mrs. Huxley entered. He automatically stood, and then cast a frown at the Watcher when he remained seated, holding the other man’s gaze until Giles stood as well.

“The constable has arrived,” Mrs. Huxley said. “He’s asked to speak to you outside.”

Giles’ stomach lurched. He hadn’t expected to play this charade out quite as far as it was going. What could he possibly tell the constable that would make any sense? He wouldn’t be able to give any personal information that could be substantiated, and short of bringing in the Watchers Council---because that was the only institution of this time he knew he could rightfully recognize---he was at a loss as to what he was going to offer as a story.

He felt the warmth of the slight body at his side before William spoke.

“May I go, too?” he asked. “I can help tell what happened.”

Giles glanced down. The boy’s eyes were upon his mother, addressing her instead of the Watcher.

“Of course,” she replied. “But you mustn’t interfere if they ask you not to, do you understand?”

William nodded, and shot Giles a shy smile before following his mother out of the drawing room. Perhaps this might not be so bad after all, Giles mused as he exited, stepping through the foyer and seeing the boy go through the open front door. William might be able to add enough details to make his own story more realistic.

He was still pondering how exactly he was going to broach the topic of an attack that had never happened when the front door swished shut behind him, and Giles found himself on a nearly empty front step. Frowning, he edged forward, glancing from side to side as he searched for William, but the child was nowhere to be seen, the garden and street completely devoid of any life.

A rustle from the bush behind him startled Giles into whirling, his eyes widening when he saw the last person he expected to find in Victorian England. “Willow?” he quizzed slowly.


	5. I Shall Not Fail That Rendezvous

_Chapter 5: I Shall Not Fail That Rendezvous_

She wasn’t dressed in period clothing, as he might’ve expected. Well, certainly, he hadn’t expected Willow at all, but even so, seeing her in flannel pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt that said, “Geeks do it with more RAM,” was disconcerting at best. When Giles uttered her name, her eyes went wide and she glanced off at the side as if she was looking at someone else before asking him, “You can see me?”

It seemed a particularly ridiculous question, especially coming from Willow. “Of course, I can see you. You’re standing right in front of me.”

“Is this Buffy?” Like a wraith, William appeared at his side, eyes dark as he looked up to Giles for confirmation. “She is not what I expected.”

“No, this is Willow,” he replied. “She is…a friend of mine.” The explanation seemed to satisfy the young man, but when Giles looked back up to ask Willow what exactly was happening, she was frowning again.

“Um, not to be…” She paused, her eyes darting to the right again, and her hand made a waving shushing motion to… _something_ before she continued. “Who were you talking to?” she asked cautiously.

Something wasn’t right. The circumstances of how he’d spent his afternoon had eased Giles into a false sense of reality, but Willow’s new arrival only served to remind him that this shouldn’t have been occurring in the first place.

“She can’t see me.” William’s voice was almost a whisper, and the downward turn of his mouth betrayed the hurt he was holding back. “She doesn’t know.”

He didn’t have time to ask for clarification on the statement.

“Giles,” Willow said. “Look at me.” She waited until he complied before continuing, her tone slow and even, like she was speaking to a child. “I’m not sure what you’re seeing, but…you’re hallucinating. You’re not where you think you are. You’re in your hotel room, and I’m here, and Buffy and Xander are here, and we’re trying to figure out what happened. Can you tell us what’s going on? Did something happen with the amulet?”

Hallucinating, of course. It certainly made more sense than the non-conclusion he had reached. Perhaps he’d been poisoned when he’d pricked his thumb. Funny, but he had never envisioned himself as Sleeping Beauty.

A small hand curled tentatively into his, warm and steady. William’s. But…how could it feel so real if this was all happening inside his head?

“Tell me what you found,” Giles instructed her, ignoring the direct address of her query.

“I didn’t. Xander and Buffy did. He wanted to go get some breakfast and he knocked on your door to see if you wanted anything, but when you didn’t answer, he went to get Buffy to get him into your room. They found you passed out on the floor with the amulet in your hand.”

That meant…

“So Buffy knows.”

Willow nodded. “I didn’t have a choice…” When she looked off to the side this time, Giles realized she must be listening to something either Buffy or Xander was saying, especially when she hissed, “I already told you, it didn’t seem that dangerous when we were there!”

His smile was rueful. “I assume Buffy is less than pleased,” he said.

“That’s an understatement,” she replied with a light chuckle. She quickly sobered. “But, what happened? You _sound_ lucid. Well, except for talking to people I can’t see, I mean.”

“And from my perspective, you’re speaking to ghosts as well. Though I must admit, my ghost is a bit more…unpredicted.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

Giles cast a sideways glance at the youth, the sight of the pensive expectation on his face curbing the words he’d been about to say. “I have suspicions,” he said. “How is it you’re able to speak with me if I’m unconscious?”

“You’re not. Not anymore. I used some of the emanations from the amulet to create a communication conduit of a sort. You woke up as soon as I finished inscribing the circle.” She bit her lip. “But you’re still wherever it is you are, aren’t you? Nothing’s changed?”

“Not particularly. I was told the constable had arrived and was asking to see me outdoors.” Briefly, he explained his inability to sleep, aware of the growing confusion coming from the boy next to him. “I don’t remember very much after pricking my thumb, though,” he finished. “I imagine that’s when I fell unconscious.”

“Blood!” Her exclamation was accompanied by a slap to her forehead, and Willow turned away from him to begin babbling at the empty air. “Have they left yet?” Pause. “I have to stop them. It’s the wrong spell. Here.” She reached forward, her hand curling around an insubstantial something, and yanked, at the same time taking the place of whatever---or whoever it was---she was pulling forward.

All of a sudden, Willow was gone, and Buffy was there in her place, stumbling slightly as she regained her balance.

She looked tired. But then, she’d looked tired the previous day, which was one of the primary reasons Giles had refused to have her told about his endeavors. Dark circles ringed her eyes, the cut that had seemed so vicious on her forehead now a scarlet sliver. Her thin arms were folded over her stomach, and the sweats she wore hung from her narrow hips.

More than anything, Giles’ main wish was that Buffy would be able to take some time and recover from the fatigue this battle had wreaked throughout her body and soul. She most definitely needed it.

A sharp intake of breath from William at his side diverted his attention.

“Miss Buffy…” His eyes were riveted to her, and he took a half-step closer, like a moth to a flame.

“How do you know that?” Giles asked.

The tiniest shakes of his head. “I don’t know. I just…she glows, doesn’t she?”

Giles swung his gaze back to Buffy, trying to see her as William did. In spite of her weariness, her shoulders were still square, her chin high, and there was a resigned peace that gave her eyes a clarity that had been missing for months. “Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Yes, she does.”

“Are you OK?” No greeting from his Slayer. Just the worried inquiry about his well-being. Giles felt his chest warm.

“I feel perfectly fine,” he replied. “Where did Willow go?”

Buffy gestured abstractly toward her right. “She went to stop Faith and Kennedy from leaving yet. She’d sent them off to get some supplies to do the spell she thought would snap you out of…wherever you are.” She glanced down around her feet. “I think she was wrong about her magical circle thing, though. It _is_ going to stain. I’ll bet the hotel tries to charge us for it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She looked up with a frown. “Because Willow’s got ring around the magic?”

“For you finding about the amulet in this way. I didn’t…yesterday was very draining for you. I didn’t wish to add to your burden.”

Before she could reply, William was tugging at his sleeve to get his attention.

“Tell her she mustn’t worry,” he said to Giles. “Tell her it doesn’t sting any longer.”

“What?”

“Who are you talking to, Giles?” Buffy said. “You never answered when Willow asked.”

“Tell her,” William insisted.

He didn’t understand, but the naked hunger in the boy’s face compelled him to obey.

“It’s…a friend,” Giles said hesitantly. “He’s asked that…he doesn’t want you to worry. Apparently…it doesn’t sting any more, though I don’t know exactly what he means by that.”

She blanched at the words, and started to step forward without thinking, only stopping when she must’ve remembered the circle inscribed on the floor. “Spike?” she asked, and her voice was shaking. “He’s there?”

How she fathomed that out based on the cryptic message, Giles had no idea, but it was pointless to deny it any longer. “In a fashion.”

“Is he…all right?”

William was no longer at his side. Unable to keep his distance from her any longer, the boy had slowly crept forward until he stood in front of Buffy. He was only a few inches shorter, and it made it easier for him to search her face, though Buffy seemed completely unaware of his proximity.

“She’s so beautiful,” he murmured. His head tilted as he began to circle around her, surveying her from every angle. “You must be so proud.”

“He’s fine,” Giles replied. “He’s been very…interesting company.”

Buffy’s head snapped to the right, her body tense again as she seemed to be listening to someone. “Willow’s back,” she said after a moment. “She says she knows how to get you back.”

“I thought she knew how to do it before.”

“She says that she was only guessing before, but that…oh, this is stupid. You explain it.” With a fluid motion, Buffy reached for nothing, only barely avoiding William and causing him to jump out of the way, and in a flash, Willow was back, standing too closely to the Slayer as she tried to stay within her circle.

“Your blood opened the pathway,” Willow said excitedly. “I’d been trying to figure out how it was you could just get sucked in, because the residual magic just isn’t strong enough for that, but it was the blood. It has to be. And that’s how I can bring you back.”

“And how will you…ow!” Giles jerked his hand back as a sharp stab of pain cut across his thumb, and he looked down to see the blood swelling from a fresh slice across the fleshy pad.

“Sorry,” Willow said. “We weren’t sure if you’d actually feel that.”

William had wandered back to his side, large eyes solemn. “You’re going now, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, it would appear so.”

Stiffly, the boy bowed in front of Giles, holding it for a long moment before straightening again. “I’m honored I had the opportunity to meet you, sir,” he said. “Please convey my best wishes to your friends and family.”

He was shocked back into silence, and only the sound Buffy’s voice was able to tear his gaze away from his scrutiny of William.

“Willow’s going to do the spell now,” she said. “Can you tell Spike…” She chewed at her lower lip, weighing her words. “Tell him thank you,” she whispered. Before Giles could respond, she turned and fled, disappearing like a candle flame quickly being extinguished.

Silence permeated the garden. Willow’s neck was twisted, as she watched some drama unfold unseen to him, and when she finally turned back to face Giles, her eyes were sad. “Buffy left,” she said simply. And then… “Is Spike really there?”

“Yes.” He reached out and settled a hand on William’s shoulder. The contact brought it with a germ of an idea, and before Willow could disappear as well, he said, “You didn’t clean the amulet any further, did you?”

“No. Why?”

Quickly, he explained what he wanted her to do, watching the emotions play across her face, first confusion, then awareness, and finally excited expectation. He was glad Buffy wasn’t present to hear his proposal; if it failed, it would only serve to wound her deeper. There was nothing more painful than hopes being dashed to the ground.

“We’re going to have to be incommunicado for a few minutes,” Willow said when he was done. “I have to do some prep for the spell.”

Giles nodded. When he was alone again, he lowered his gaze to meet William’s. “It would seem I have a few minutes,” he said with a smile. “Would it be too forward of me to ask for another cup of tea? I’d love the opportunity to speak with you some more about your writing.”

*************

He woke up with a splitting headache, blinking against the sudden change of light within the hotel room. Next to the bed, Willow and Xander hovered in waiting, but it was the split focus of their attention that prompted him to push himself upright, even if it did make his head swim.

“Did it…” But he didn’t have to finish the question. There, curled into a ball on the floor at the foot of the bed, was a black and white form, shoulders bunched and tense beneath the t-shirt, bleached hair dull from the dust that clung to it. He was still unconscious, but Giles reasoned it would likely take Spike longer to come around. After all, his soul had been trapped inside the amulet for almost a day longer.

“You were right,” Willow said. “Some of the dust that was on the amulet was Spike’s. Probably a lucky thing. I would’ve hated trying to explain some kind of dirt monster to Buffy if we’d screwed up.”

“Has anyone told her?” When she shook her head, Giles said, “Go get her. She needs to know.”

Without a word, Xander left the room, making sure to keep the sunlight that threatened to stream inside away from the inert vampire. Slowly, Giles rose to his feet, and though his balance was shaky, he strode the short distance to Spike’s side.

“Help me move him to the bed,” he ordered. Taking Spike’s shoulders, he struggled to take most of the weight while Willow grabbed his boots, stumbling the few feet to the bed and laying him as carefully as he could across the comforter.

The vampire groaned. When the lashes parted, dark blue eyes stared unfocused into the room, but they soon clouded in pain. “Bugger,” Spike muttered, his eyes drifting shut again. “Next time I step up to save the world, tell me I’m out of my bloody mind.”

“Are the blood bags still in the cooler?” Giles asked Willow. He sincerely hoped nobody had been overly efficient in clearing out the supplies that were extraneous after the Hellmouth’s collapse.

She nodded. “I’ll go get some.”

Both men were silent until they were alone. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Spike’s eyelids slowly opened.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked. “You could’ve just left me there. Nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

The unspoken _Buffy would never have known_ hung there between them. “Because it would’ve been wrong,” Giles said simply. “After…” He couldn’t say it, but he doubted Spike wouldn’t know what he was referring to. “It would’ve been wrong,” he repeated.

There was nothing to say to that but, “Thanks.”

When the door opened behind them, and Buffy stepped into the room, Giles retreated to the bathroom, allowing the pair their reunion in private. Part of him wasn’t entirely convinced he’d done the best thing for all involved, but an even larger part remembered the solemn gaze of a young William speaking of his dreams.

Remembered the soul that had recognized the Slayer it loved without the benefit of foreknowledge.

Remembered Buffy’s face when she’d realized who Giles was speaking to.

Life was about taking chances. Risking everything to gain what small measure of happiness one could. Sometimes, those were second chances.

After everything, Spike deserved that.

 _William_ deserved that.

After misunderstanding for so many months, Giles was just glad he could be the one to give it to him.


End file.
